Wrong Song
by Dickensian812
Summary: Based on "Lovesick Blues." A closer look at what happened the night Rayna and Juliette wrote a song together. For a Great Tales challenge. Rayna's lines are in bold, Juliette's in normal font.


Wrong Song

She's standing here in my kitchen, Ms. Wonderful herself, telling me we have to write a song together.

This is SO not my night.

**Juliette looks like she's standing on the railroad tracks and I'm an oncoming train. But she's trapped. As trapped as I am. If we're going to get out of this mess, we're going to have to fight our way out together.**

**If we don't kill each other first.**

"Give me a minute." I turn on my heel and stalk off to retrieve guitar, pens, and paper.

"**Take your time," I call sarcastically to her retreating back. **_**I've got nothing better to do with my night . . .**_** I get myself some coffee and find my way to the enormous living room, where I flop down on a sofa that must have cost more than I make in a year.**

Rayna's surveying my living room when I get back, with that familiar judging look all over her face. But as I kick my shoes off and plop down on the floor, she keeps her mouth shut. Wise move. She hands over a pad of paper, which has a few lines scrawled on it. I squint to make out the two words at the top: "Wrong Song."

"That works," I mutter.

"**I thought it might," I say, sweetly.**

**Juliette glances up and something flickers across her face—something like . . . humor? I blink and it's gone. **

**She reads under her breath the couple of lines I've jotted down. "So . . . it's a cheatin' song."**

**I shrug. "Classic theme for country."**

I've got my mouth open to say something about "classic" sounding a lot like "old." I can actually feel her tensing up, waiting for it.

Then I bite my lip. What she said before was right—we just need to get this over with.

**The remark I'm waiting for doesn't come. Instead, she studies the pad again, intently. "These lines are for the chorus?"**

"**Yes."**

"**We'll want the emphasis on 'wrong.'" She sings softly: "You got the **_**wrong**_** song, comin' through your speakers . . ." I stare at her, startled.**

"**That—that sounds good."**

**She doesn't answer, but her lips twist in that familiar smirk as she makes a notation on the pad. I let it pass.**

The night drags on, and we're actually working together, trading lines and suggestions, and if it's not all a bed of roses, well, it's not quite the shark tank I pictured, either. I have to bite my lip a few more times, and so does Rayna. Once or twice I get up and go out, saying I need coffee or a bathroom break, but really just so I can close my eyes and lean against the wall and promise God I'll do anything if this can just be over already.

But we're getting through it. Somehow we're actually coming up with a song that might work. That _will_ work.

**There are moments when I'm surprised at how closely our minds seem to be working together. The "liar and cheater" theme seems to be bringing out some sort of weird creative energy in both of us. I'm not sure I like that. When she asks me, out of the blue, "This song about Deacon for you?" I don't want to answer.**

"**Not necessarily" is all I say, at first. And then my mind instantly goes to how Teddy's been acting lately—the odd silence, the furtive glances—and I like that even less.**

**Hastily I add, "How about for you?"**

I think of Sean . . . of trying to make him stay, of doing everything I knew to make him stay, and then that awful moment I realized that none of the old ways would work. It doesn't matter what you do—or don't do. (There's a song idea that would stand Rayna's hair on end.) You always end up alone.

"All of 'em," I say, grimly.

**In the early morning light, with her hair disheveled and makeup wearing off, she looks so young. Ridiculously young. With a little shock, I remember she's only a few years older than my Maddie.**

**I look away. **

Another hour. I'm so tired my legs almost fold up under me when I go for more coffee. "No vodka in it, please," Rayna cracks as I leave the room. I grit my teeth and let it go.

Or maybe I don't. Maybe it stays there, rankling. Because . . . when I get back, she's sitting there with our scribbled pages in her hands and this kind of wondering look on her face, and she says, half to herself, "So, we're really gonna sing this together."

And I boil over.

**I didn't mean it the way she takes it. I see her eyes lash out in that way they always do right before her tongue lashes out. Instantly I want to backtrack, to say it a different way, but without a pause she slams my cup down on the table, sloshing coffee over the rim, and snaps, "If I can keep from sounding like a feral cat this time."**

I don't know why I said that. I guess it was the tiredness, or the strain of trying to play nice all night, or the resentment that's been festering in me ever since I heard her say those words . . . I don't know. Just as I was saying it, it felt so satisfying—but Rayna looks stricken, and suddenly the satisfaction turns into guilt. I close my eyes a second, take a breath.

"Juliette . . ." she says, softly. "I . . . we've both said things that . . ."

"Forget it. Just—forget I said anything." I force my eyes open, fight back the tears, focus my gaze on the pages she's holding. "If we're done here, I need to go freshen up before we go to rehearsal." I turn to leave the room again.

"I can drive you over," I hear her say behind me, a little shakily.

**Oh Lord, why did I say **_**that**_**? Why would I spend one more minute than I have to with that little—**

"**Yeah—fine. Thanks," she shoots back over her shoulder. **

**I close my eyes and slump back against the sofa. Once this performance is over with, I never want to see Juliette Barnes again.**

Never. Ever. Again.


End file.
